


Chemical Smile

by rissalf



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Drugs, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, dennis is a bastard man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 05:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14278209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf
Summary: Sometimes, Dennis just wants to ruin something.





	Chemical Smile

The thing no one realizes about being a god is just how goddamn irritating it is. You know that you’re head and shoulders above every other imbecile around you – that you have a right to any fucking thing your heart desires – but you can’t have it. And what Dennis wants right now, more than anything else in the world, is to look Charlie Kelly right in the eyes and come all over his pretty, paint-smeared face.

It’s not like he’s gay. Nobody loves a giant pair of tits more than Dennis Reynolds. Nobody has fucked more women in dubiously legal ways – with the tapes to prove it. You sure as shit don’t bang half the women in Philly between the ages of 18(ish) and 25 by being gay. But it’s not like he’s perfectly straight either. If an attractive guy wanted to give him head, he wouldn't say no. Why would he? If anything, he would consider it a tribute. The peasants want to honor their golden god; why stop them?

But his preoccupation – don’t call it an obsession, because it’s not – with Charlie doesn’t fall into either of those categories. It has nothing to do with sex, really.

Sometimes, Dennis just wants to ruin something.

It’s an urge. Maybe not a healthy one, sure – and not one he’s going to act on – but it’s there, like the persistent drip of a faucet that grows ever louder until the drip becomes a goddamn waterfall, and the deafening roar won’t let him hear anything else.

 _Take it. Do it. You’re a fucking_ **_god_** _, Dennis, just_ **_do it_** _._

He won’t, though. Of course he won’t. It’s not like he’s some lawless savage with no sense of decency. Charlie is a friend – a good friend. But that doesn’t mean he can’t play out the fantasy in his head as often as he damn well pleases.

It’s something he’s wanted for years – since the day they wrote Dayman together, to be exact. Charlie had been cunted out of his goddamn mind on spray paint, ranting about his mythical champion of the sun and all manner of crazy-ass shit, and there was something so fucking innocent in it, so pure and utterly corruptible. Ironically, it’s the very fact that it would be so easy to take advantage of him in such a state that makes the fantasy so goddamn appealing. In that condition, Charlie would do just about anything. It brings a smile to Dennis’ lips just thinking about it. A good friend would have had the man committed – or at least tried to sober him up. All Dennis wanted, from that moment on, was to soil him.

It isn’t like some all-consuming desire. Maybe talking about voices and shit makes it sound like that, but it’s not. That would be crazy, and Dennis is perfectly sane. Undoubtedly the most sane member of the Gang. He’s not like those other brain-dead assholes who get fixated on every little trivial bit of bullshit that flits across their radar, no sir. That kind of petty, short-sighted insanity is beneath him, goddammit. He’s been able to go on and live his life and fuck an unbelievable number of women and completely forget about Charlie’s perfectly fuckable face for years. But when Charlie gets high enough – which is more often than can possibly be healthy; when that extra dazed look settles over his features, Dennis has to excuse himself to discreetly crack one out in the bathroom.

 

After the Gang chases those asswipes from the Restaurant Bar Association out of the bar, in a torrent of spit and Charlie’s obscenity-laden musical ravings, he can’t get away fast enough. A lesser man would have creamed his pants an hour ago, but Dennis is no fucking mortal.

He offers to lock up once the last of the self-important dickbags is gone. Insists on it, truth be told. He could just jerk off at home, sure, but Mac will be there - because Mac is always goddamn there - and this isn’t about him. He’ll want to talk about their day and wind down with a movie, and Dennis can’t stomach that right now. He needs to be alone in the bar, in the filthy men’s room with the stench of piss and vomit burning his nostrils, wallowing in the innate Charlie-ness of it all.

The doors locked behind him, he stands before the dingy mirror and unzips himself. After taking a moment to admire length and girth and the way his cock looks in his hand – it truly is a perfect size (of course it is) – he closes his eyes and sinks into the reverie. There’s no need for any frantic warmup strokes, no teasing the tip to get him going; he’s already rock hard and aching to see this thing to fruition.

In no time at all, Dennis’ cheeks flush with color and his breath escapes between clenched teeth as he strokes himself. It’s like picking up a dog-eared book to re-read a favorite passage, and in his mind’s eye, he trades the disgusting men’s room for Charlie’s equally disgusting apartment, and stands tall – dick to face with one Charlie fucking Kelly.

_Mmmm, that’s good._

Charlie looks just as he did that day: his small frame hunched beneath a blanket with his hair disheveled, eyes glassy and vacant, nose and mouth wreathed in lustrous silver from all the paint he’s huffed. He imagines Charlie’s bewilderment first, his red eyes staring widely as Dennis’ hot, sticky seed spurts onto his face – adding a little extra sheen to his silver-painted nose. The shock is exquisite; the anger even moreso. He pictures Charlie’s manic rage parting the clouds of inebriation – just briefly – his voice slurred and rising an octave. “What the fuck, man? What the fuck?”

_Fuck, that’s good. Fuuuuck._

Dennis works himself hard, his pace steady but unhurried. He’s no goddamn teenager with zero self-control. He’ll come when he’s ready, and not a second before. He’s going to savor this fantasy. Every single goddamn second.

Charlie’s rage doesn’t last. The man’s drug-induced fog is dense, and when the haze settles over him, he retreats into gleeful placidity once more. That Charlie recognizes he’s been ruined is an important part of the fantasy; Dennis can’t say why really, but the very idea of it makes his pulse race just a little faster. He wants Charlie angry, wants him ready to deck him even. But only briefly, like a passing thundershower. The anger is delicious, yes – but it’s merely an appetizer. The main course is the sublime stupor of Charlie’s intoxication: the glazed eyes, the slack grin. The sheer acceptance of it all as he submits to the golden god’s will.

The knowledge that Charlie would do anything in such a state. Anything.

_Oh, goddamn._

Dennis grits his teeth. This is where it gets tough; where an undisciplined man would blow his wad and ruin the end of the fantasy before it’s run its full course. But Dennis isn’t finished. Not quite yet.

He imagines the viscous spunk dripping onto Charlie’s upper lip, the hairs of his thick mustache drinking it up like it’s nourishment from the gods – and it is, isn’t it? How blessed Charlie is to receive it. Dennis almost wishes he could taste it himself.

_Almost there._

The droplet hits his lip, and Charlie’s tongue instinctively darts up to catch it – maybe before he even realizes what he’s doing. “Taste me,” Dennis commands, his voice booming and glorious. “Don’t let it go to waste.” And without a moment’s hesitation, with that gloriously dim expression coloring his beautiful, hairy face – Charlie does.

_Oh, Christ. Fuck, fuck, fuuuck._

Dennis grips the edge of the restroom vanity, red-faced and perspiring, his knees a little weak as his pleasure builds to its sticky climax. He pumps himself once, twice more, before coming with a guttural roar – his viscous release adding a little more grime to the filthy fixtures.

Satisfied and tired as shit, he washes his hands and regards the gooey splatter dripping off the faucet of the adjoining sink. It’s a goddamn masterpiece is what it is; it’d be a damn shame to clean it up now.

Charlie can tackle that tomorrow, he thinks, unable to keep the smirk from his face. He sets out a bucket and a bottle of bleach – one whiff confirms that it’s the real deal and not some of the little dirtgrub’s hidden booze – and shuts out the light.

Tomorrow will be a great fucking day.

**Author's Note:**

> I never set out to write this thing, but it just poured out while I was banging my head against the end of Conscience Killer. I blame Dayquil. Now I must rest; I’ve written far too much this month. Good LORD.
> 
> Find me here: [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com)


End file.
